As promised we begin our day returning to the Mangrol dharamsala, the sarpanch greeting us once more at this early hour. We really don’t have much else to see there and the pressure is on to get moving in the cool hour of dawn. I think of Thomas Weber on his Walk and how he was expected to give speeches, often twice daily, as he was hosted by village hospitality. He lamented that he never had the opportunity to simply walk and reflect in solitude. We begin our walk down the quiet road and I feel calmed by the pale pink morning glories blooming along the border of the crop fields. We come to an intersection that has us wondering which direction to take. Approaching us on our right are five bearded men with close-cropped hair dressed in white robes. They have walking sticks and are carrying cloth shoulder bags and bedrolls strapped on their backs. It feels like a mirage, like an image long buried in my head coming to surface. They move like a cloud carried on a west wind and I cannot take my eyes off them. I’m wondering, is this what I want for myself? Or was I perhaps a mendicant at one time? Where are they going and where is it I am heading? They are Jain mendicants. As Erico photographs them he asks which road leads to Rayma. They pause and I’m struck by their direct, clear eyes, not sure if they are returning my gaze or looking beyond me. The one in front leading raises his hand pointing the way to Rayma then they continue walking their own path.
Mirage - Virginia Dixon, oil on canvas, 32” x28”
It is a lovely day and I feel free and blessed. We are in sugarcane territory and fieldworkers are cutting tall stalks with their machetes, lowering them to watch us as we pass by. I see a peepul tree with hearts and arrows and initials carved into its trunk. We arrive in the village called Rahid, greeted by a statue of the avatar Kalki mounted on his white horse. School children on their recess gather at the gate of the schoolyard and watch us like we are a friendly but foreign species. Next door, in an open barber’s booth, Erico decides on another haircut and steps into the chair. It begins with a flourish, the barber draping a bib around his neck festooned with Disney’s Cinderella and Snow White. This has Tahir and I amused and smiling while Erico demonstrates his progressive nature, comfortable with pink princesses. The barber sets to work with an electric razor shaving the back and sides. He switches to scissors and at this point the scene attracts other curious young men who jam into the booth along with Tahir to watch the performance. Tahir is chatty and full of laughter, enjoying having his boss being the centre of attention. The barber puts lotion on Erico’s face and beard, spritzes him with water before giving him a full facial and hair massage, rubbing him down vigorously with a towel to finish. When all is done the barber refuses payment. Erico, gleaming with cleanliness, has now noticed the school and its children so we enter the gate and seek a teacher for permission to photograph. It’s an inviting atmosphere filled with garden greenery, a poster of smiling Gandhi at the door. The children have assembled sitting cross-legged in rows in the exterior hallway and are singing songs. I can see they are excited but also want to show us their best behaviour. As they line up to enter the classrooms they fold their arms in front of their chests then march away single file.
We continue walking past fields of sugar cane under harvest and I hear birds singing. I locate them perched atop the spindly branches of a dead tree in the centre of a grove of leafy ones, the silhouette of the scene somehow feeling significant, like a neural network of a brain. Perhaps they are singing it back to life. Perhaps they are forecasting the beauty ahead for us in Rayma. Before we get there however we are searching for the place where Gandhi crossed the Kim River. We keep walking and walking only to have Tahir come fetch us in the van as we have walked 6.4 km (four miles) beyond Rayma without finding the crossing. Tahir has located a family to host us for our night halt and when we pull up to the house I feel we are in for a very artistic experience. A serpentine staircase leads to the front portico of a white plaster house, a circular window divided by 8 spokes like the wheel-of-life piercing the wall. As we enter, more light filters through a triangular sunroof. The white plaster walls are washed in a distressed ultramarine blue at ceiling height. An exposed spiral staircase curls to the second floor. Beneath it, light filtering in from a window framed in turquoise casts its colour onto the base of each step. A curved balcony projects over the living room, a ceiling fan slowly rotates. I feel I am inside a musical nautilus. We are invited to sit and rest, have tea and talk with the husband. He has books and photos to show Erico for this house, custom built and architecturally designed, is on the grounds of the former house where Gandhi had stayed. We eat dinner and are shown our rooms for the night. My own is beautiful, the walls the same distressed blue, a lace curtain hanging before the cupboard. I help my hostess make up a western style bed with red sheets beneath a painting of Krishna and Radha surrounded by a circle of gopis dancing under the moonlight. I will have sweet dreams tonight!